


Encounters with Santa

by roquentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:34:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8777938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: Mycroft wears a reindeer tie and John has suspicions.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 27 of the Seasonal Fucking Cheer Prompts: Encounters with Santa and other things that may be better in theory.

“Sherlock, are you ready?” called a voice from downstairs, followed by footsteps ascending those stairs with peculiar alacrity.

John chewed the last of his toast and glanced up from his paper just as Mycroft appeared on the landing. His cashmere overcoat was unbuttoned, revealing a very dapper dark brown suit and… wait… was that…

John’s eyes went wide. “Sorry, are you wearing a _Christmas_ tie?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft said, lowering his chin and ducking in through the door to the kitchen, his back to John as he headed down the hallway.

“You really are,” John called after him, turning back to his paper. “That might have to go in my blog. ‘Mycroft Holmes not only owns a Christmas tie, but wears it out in public.’”

“Not funny, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft called over his shoulder as he rapped the bedroom door with the handle of his umbrella. “Let’s go, little brother, we’re going to be late.”

John studied his newspaper. “Oh, look, a blind item: Man with _minor_ position in the British government spotted in Baker Street wearing a tie covered with little red-nosed reindeer.”

Mycroft sighed and turned around, confirming that he was, in fact, wearing a reindeer tie. He stood with a hand on his hip, opening his coat just enough to reveal a matching pattern on the pocket square. He glared at John, who was not bothering to hide his high-pitched, only _slightly_ mocking giggle, when the door behind him flew open.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock intoned as he moved past Mycroft and into the sitting room, in search of wherever he had last flung his Belstaff. He was also wearing a very nice suit, dark blue, remarkable only because of the waistcoat patterned in snowmen wearing scarves of either red or green, and also jingle bell hats.

John let his paper fall to the table. “What the… Sherlock, what are _you_ wearing?”

“A suit.” Sherlock crossed the room in three long strides and pulled his coat from the arm of the sofa.

“Okay,” John nodded. “In case you were wondering, I’m not in the least suspicious about any of this. So where are you two off to?”

“None of your business,” the Holmeses replied in unison as they buttoned coats and pulled on gloves.

“Nope, not suspicious at all,” John said, picking his newspaper back up and shaking it open. “Look, just me know if we’re going to be on the news later, okay? I have a Christmas tree jumper I’ll need to put on.”

“Hilarious as ever, John,” Sherlock responded dryly. “I’ll be back in time for tea. Get something in, will you?”

“You’ll be _out_ , you lazy genius, just pick something up…”

But he was cut off by the slam of a door.

* * * * *

Sherlock bounded up the stairs a few hours later, then stopped in the doorway, almost offended. “There’s no tea? I’m starving.”

John looked up from where he was comfortably sprawled on the sofa, a book in his hand. “I’ve deduced,” he began, sitting up, “that the Holmes brothers’ activity today was not in the least bit serious, or nefarious, or in any way covered by Official Secrets. In fact, all evidence suggests that you were doing something I personally would find _incredibly_ entertaining. So I’ve decided there will be no tea until you tell me.” John leaned forward, his hands folded between his knees, and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock scoffed. “Nice try.” He turned to yell down the staircase. “Mrs Hudson!”

“She’s in Bristol.”

“Fine. I’ll wait until she gets back.”

“Fine. I’m sure you’ll have a delightful week.”

Sherlock stared at John, who stared back, then opened his hands in a palms-up, it’s-your-choice gesture.

Sherlock’s face fell. “Oh, _fine_.”

He disappeared into the bedroom, and John heard some rummaging, and soon he emerged, divested of his Christmas waistcoat, wearing his dressing gown, and carrying an old-fashioned photo album, thick with inserts. He collapsed dramatically onto the sofa next to John and dropped his legs one over the other on the coffee table, the album on his lap. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

“Well?” John said. “Come on, hand it over.”

With a sigh and an eyeroll, but keeping his gaze on the ceiling, Sherlock lifted the book and held it out to John.

John’s mouth curled at Sherlock’s exaggerated agony as he took it. He set it carefully on the table and gingerly opened the cover to the very first photo.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed.

It was better than he could have ever imagined.

A 1970’s-era Santa Claus was smiling back at him from under the cellophane. On his lap was a screaming bald baby wearing a snapsuit with elves on it and booties, one red, one green. Standing not too close to Santa, arms at his sides and a murderous look in his eye, is a six-year-old reddish-blonde boy in a green-and-white-striped knitted sweater vest with a red button band and gold buttons.

John held his breath as he turned the album page. The next photo was the same Santa, his lap now holding a screaming bald 18-month-old also wearing a Santa outfit, and a slightly taller boy than the one in the previous photo, still shooting visual daggers at the lens from under a striped stocking cap and a Santa Claus sweatshirt.

Mycroft and Sherlock grew before his eyes with every turn of the page. Eventually Sherlock’s curls came in and he got down off Santa’s lap, and the Santas changed every few years, but two things remained constant, photo after photo: the abject misery of the Holmes boys, and the relentlessly cheerful holiday apparel they modeled.

“This is…” John shook his head and grinned widely at each passing photograph. “This is the greatest thing I have ever seen.” He continued turning pages, year after year, the photos long since ceasing to show children, until he finally realizing exactly what had happened today. He looked up at Sherlock, aghast. “You’re kidding me. You’ve kept doing it? All this time?”

“For our parents,” Sherlock said, the disgust in his voice not able to entirely disguise a note of affection. “After a while it just became a thing. Every year we find a Santa, get the photo framed, put it under the tree on Christmas morning. My mother brings them all out and scatters them around the house every December.”

“Sherlock, that is… that is actually really lovely.” John smiled at him with genuine warmth, all hints of teasing gone. He leaned over and brushed a kiss against Sherlock’s mouth, then a second, both of which Sherlock accepted and returned, even while pouting.

When John pulled away, Sherlock sat back with his arms crossed. “So where’s my tea?”

John sighed and looked at him a moment longer, then, without turning away, shouted “Mrs Hudson!” A few moments later they heard her door open, followed by the sounds of a tray being carried up the stairs.

Sherlock turned and stared at John. “Are you… You _tricked_ me?” Sherlock grabbed the album from John’s hands and stomped over the table toward the bedroom. “I’m not speaking to you until New Year.”

John just grinned and picked up his book. “I’m coming to bed tonight in a Christmas tree jumper and nothing else.”

Sherlock stopped mid-stride and glanced sideways at John, the corners of his mouth perking up despite his best efforts.

“ _Fine_.”


End file.
